


a sheep in wolf's clothing

by jdphoenix



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 11:29:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11160957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/pseuds/jdphoenix
Summary: Of all the threats Jemma's faced while undercover, this is the most dangerous.





	a sheep in wolf's clothing

**Author's Note:**

> An anon prompted a hug from behind for Grant/Jemma and it kinda got out of hand, as these things tend to.

The entire lab is on edge. Not that such a state is unusual while working for HYDRA, but ever since Kenneth came back from the loo half an hour ago and told them Bakshi’s making his way through the labs, showing them off to some new asset, things have been especially tense. And now that Bakshi is actually _here_ … Well, suffice it to say it’s a miracle nothing’s exploded as yet.

“Poisons,” Bakshi says. He practically falls against Jemma’s lab bench and both looks and sounds incredibly tired. “Tell me you have some. Quick-acting if at all possible.”

“Uh- uh- um, not … at the ready?”

He lets out a beleaguered moan. “Really? There’s no one on base you’ve given thought to murdering? You’re still far too SHIELD for your own good, Simmons.”

Under normal circumstances, she would take that as a compliment, but she really has no idea what it means coming from her superior, who also happens to be one of the individuals on base she _has_ contemplated killing. She decides to simply wait him out to see whatever’s got him so wound up he’s considering murder before lunch.

It’s a good thing too because if she were in the middle of speaking when a pair of arms wrap around her from behind and a terribly familiar voice speaks in her ear, she might do something foolish like scream.

“That’s Simmons for you,” Ward says, tugging her to him so that he can rest his chin on top of her head. “Always following the rules.”

Terror streaks through Jemma, which is her only saving grace. Her expression freezes on its previously polite smile, completely hiding her thoughts, which range from hysterical questions to a running loop of Donnie Gill’s face going slack as the activation phrase began to settle in and the vapid “happy to comply” Agent 33 gave to Bakshi after showing Jemma to his office last week.

Though it seems impossible, there can be no doubt that Bakshi pouts as he straightens. “You two … know one another?”

“We’re old friends,” Ward says, sounding far more chipper than a man who’s meant to be rotting away at the bottom of a very deep hole in the ground has right to.

She struggles to tear her thoughts away from wondering how—and what he might have done along the way—he came to be here instead of there. The much more pertinent question of what he’s doing singling her out like this might be more terrifying, but it requires her immediate attention. Unfortunately, she has no more idea what Ward might be thinking now than she ever did.

No, that isn’t true. It’s becoming difficult to keep up her fake smile and to avoid giving herself away to Bakshi while Ward seems intent on filling him in on their “friendship,” she looks down at the arms holding her as firmly as iron bars. The ugly line of a new scar snakes around his wrist and she can’t quite help but touch the edge of it. It was the less damaging of the two attempts he made on his own life and he was in no danger from it save from infection. She remembers sewing it up, remembers how he tried to stop her with fingers made clumsy by the sedative Trip had already injected him with, how he begged her to let him escape his prison through the only avenue available to him. 

She saved his life.

Whatever his reason for lying to Bakshi, she imagines his motive can be nothing short of revenge.

“-glad to see she’s been looked after,” he’s saying. His hands slide over her stomach to her hips so that he can move her into his side. Once she’s securely situated beneath his arm, he reaches across his chest to tug playfully at a curl of her hair. She doesn’t look directly at him—she can’t bear to—but she catches the edge of his grin. “I was getting worried.”

A familiar heat rises to her cheeks. She thought she was done feeling like a foolish teenager at the slightest sign of affection from Ward—in part because he was supposed to remain _locked away_ but also because it’s hardly healthy to have such a reaction to a man who features in her worst nightmares.

One of Bakshi’s brows lifts, causing her flush to deepen. She may not have any poisons on hand, but she does have a firearm in her purse. She’s beginning to wonder if it might not be such a terrible idea to use it.

“You could have simply said you were looking for her instead of demanding a tour of the labs,” Bakshi says, eyes slipping to Ward as a disinterested mask replaces his blatant curiosity.

A chill passes through Jemma, so deep not even Ward pressed against her side can warm her. He was looking for her? Whatever shape his revenge might take, it isn’t looking good.

If Ward plans on admitting to seeking her out, he’s interrupted by the arrival of a very severe woman who sweeps the lab in a cool glance as she approaches.

“Sir,” she says, and only the slight sigh in the word gives any indication she’s breathless. “I’m sorry, I was overseeing the closure of a security breach at the dockside warehouse. I only just heard you were taking a tour of the labs or I would have-”

Bakshi lifts a hand, cutting her off. “That’s all right, Agent Morse. Your enthusiasm for your position is admirable, but I am capable of inspecting the labs without escort.”

Morse’s cold eyes narrow, but not on Bakshi. Jemma finds herself pressing closer to Ward beneath her gaze. By the time she realizes that instinctive trust is misplaced, he’s already tightened his grip on her.

“And what about your … guest?” Morse asks.

“I’m sure I can handle myself around a few lab rats,” Ward says, his voice hitting a dangerously low tone that has Jemma flashing back to that horrible encounter in Cuba. Her breath quickens as she struggles to fight off the memory of facing her friend as an enemy.

Absurdly, Ward’s hand running up and down her shoulder eases her remembered fears.

“And I’m sure Simmons here would look after us if there were any accidents,” he adds, back to that piercingly friendly tone he used with Bakshi, “wouldn’t you?”

The demand that she speak is just as surprisingly helpful as his touch. It forces her to breathe normally so that she can say, “Of course. Assuming you can follow orders.” Ward rolls his eyes as the familiar barb rolls off her tongue as easily as if this were a year ago. “If I have to follow yours in the field-”

“I have to follow your rules in the lab,” he finishes for her. “I know.”

The smile he gives her is so _fond_ , she can barely stand it. She has to look away and doesn’t waste energy examining the coil of nerves the expression stirs in her belly, she has too much to analyze in Morse’s carefully calculating stare.

“So let’s go somewhere that’s not the lab or the field,” Ward says. “Lunch?”

“I’m sure Agent Simmons has work to do-” Morse begins sternly, but Bakshi cuts her off.

“Nothing so important she can’t reacquaint herself with an old friend.” His jaw is tight, each word crisp and succinct. It shouldn’t matter, not when she’s likely about to be tortured and, if she’s very lucky, killed, but she has the sinking feeling revealing herself to be Ward’s supposed friend has lost her what little ground she’s gained with him.

Ward scoffs. “You said yourself this lab was level one. You’re wasting her here.”

Bakshi’s smile is as sharp as it is forced. “I wouldn’t have expected you to care so much about our scientific endeavors, not when you no longer hold a personal interest in them.”

The arm around Jemma’s shoulders stiffens. The tension in the room—already incredibly high—climbs a few notches, far enough she turns into Ward’s embrace, using the excuse of laying a calming hand on his chest to look around him so that she can see precisely where her bag—and the gun inside—are resting beneath her lab bench.

It’s a mistake. For all reminding herself protection is a lunge away, the move earns her Ward’s hand on her hip.

“Obviously I don’t, since I’m stealing the best brain you’ve got.”

Morse makes a faint sound of protest but again Bakshi stops her. “I’m sure you have a great deal to talk about. Agent Simmons? Feel free to take the afternoon. I’m sure Dr. Turgeon is more than capable of filling in for you.”

Jemma winces. Kenneth certainly won’t thank her for that. Not that it much matters as the only way she’ll be returning to this lab is as one of HYDRA’s mindless drones.

Ward bends closer. As he does so, he holds her in place by increasing the pressure on her hip. His thumb begins drawing almost apologetic circles above the waist of her jeans. “I don’t think he likes me, do you?” he asks in a tone which doesn’t even attempt at being a whisper.

She breathes out slowly, forcing aside the shiver that runs through her. “I certainly can’t blame him.”

Ward chuckles and tugs her away. She stumbles, reaching to grab her purse as they pass it by, and in doing so catches sight of real concern on Bakshi’s face. Not for her though. Only concern that he might have misjudged her feelings towards Ward. He certainly won’t be rescuing her from him when her sacrifice means he’s finally free of escorting him around. Beside Bakshi, Morse looks positively furious.

“Where are we going?” Jemma asks as they pass into the hall. Ward isn’t walking especially fast, but not slowly enough that this can be called an idle stroll. He knows where he’s taking them.

“To eat,” he reminds her, still in that jovial tone he used with Bakshi. As if she believes him. “You can tell me what you’ve been up to and I’ll fill you in on which of our old friends ended up on SHIELD’s side. You wouldn’t believe how many of them are still flying the SHIELD flag.”

There’s a chill in the air as they step out the main doors into the street. The shock of it in her lungs helps her keep breathing. She clings tight to Ward’s use of the present tense, telling herself it means at least some of the team survived his escape.

And at the same time she keeps her eyes open for opportunities. They’re out in the world, no longer within HYDRA’s walls, which is an unexpected stroke of luck. She half-expected him to spend the day toying with her, keeping up the pretense of their friendship and forcing her to do the same so long as HYDRA could see.

She’s still under the arm of a known killer, but there’s more hope of escaping him out here than there was in there. Her mind spins with half-formed plans from making a scene in the restaurant to convincing him to let her use the loo and slipping out a conveniently placed window.

In the end, as she doubts Ward truly plans on taking her to lunch—she’s more likely to be iced and shut up in the trunk of a car so he can transport her to a basement with a convenient drain in the floor—so she takes option number three.

She grabs a steaming cup of coffee from a passing pedestrian’s hand, throws it in Ward’s face, and darts down the nearest alley while the scene is still all confusion. She’s been training every day to run from her employers and has quite a bit more stamina than she had in their days on the Bus. Ward, meanwhile, has been shut up in a very small space, with no room at all to do cardio. She might just have a chance.

And she would have, if the corners didn’t do her in. He catches her on her second turn, down an alley within sight of a street which would take her very close to her apartment. She can practically see freedom, but she can’t reach it.

“Let me go!” she demands. He’s got her around the waist again and all her training with May didn’t prepare her to face an attacker so much larger than her. She can’t get the momentum she needs to force him off and with her arms pinned to her sides she has no means of fighting back and no way of reaching her gun. Why didn’t she pull it out while she was running?

“Will you knock it off?” he grunts, lifting her up into the air, robbing her of her meager leverage.

She would laugh if all her breath weren’t being used fighting him. Knock it off? Like she’s cracking jokes with Skye while he and Fitz see whose lock-picking skills are best or she’s once again used British slang against him in Scrabble. Has he forgotten that she’s quite literally fighting for her life? Or does he truly care about her that little?

And why, she wonders dimly as her feet hit the ground and she makes another effort to shove him back, does that thought still sting after all these months?

“Simmons!” It’s not the booming echo off the narrow alley walls that stops her, but the voice itself. She has reason suddenly to be grateful for Ward’s grip on her; without him, she might fall.

“Sir?” she asks. Coulson stands a few feet away, wearing jeans and a baseball cap of all things. A scowling man hovers behind him, but Jemma doesn’t recognize him at all and is still too surprised by Coulson’s presence to even begin to wonder who he could be.

Coulson’s thin smile fades as he meets Ward’s eyes over her head. “Thank you.” He actually sounds sincere. 

Ward lifts his hands away and Jemma has to cling embarrassingly to his jacket to keep upright. “Just following orders.” One of his hands finds her hip again, lending her support. She tries not to think about how easy the motion seems. “You were right though,” he says, “Morse was there. That bitch was not happy to see me.”

“Hey!” the stranger barks. “You don’t get to call her that.”

“You called her a demonic hell beast on the flight up here.”

“Yeah. Because I was married to that demonic hell beast. I earned that right.”

“Can someone _please_ ,” Jemma says, her voice going a little more shrill than she intends, “tell me what’s going on here?” She’s still clinging to Ward, but she really feels as though if she lets go, she might float up into the atmosphere; it’s just that kind of day.

Coulson sighs heavily, causing the lines around his eyes to deepen. She realizes what else is wrong, besides his casual clothes: he looks old. Older than the years the uprising has put on him. Something’s happened, something that must be worse than Ward escaping if his extracting her from HYDRA was an actual plan.

And that’s something she’ll have to consider, the man she’s feared for so long just saved her when he could just as easily have exposed her.

“We have a lot to discuss,” Coulson says. He shoots a glance overhead as though expecting to find spies perched on rooftops. “But it’ll be safer on the quinjet. Come on.” He turns—turns his back on _Grant Ward_ —without another word or any sign he fears a knife in his back. The scowling man spares a moment more to glare at Ward before doing the same.

Ward gently wraps an arm around her back and pulls her along behind. “The others are okay,” he says softly. “Morse’s people don’t wanna hurt them.”

Given where it comes from—and given Jemma’s single, very brief encounter with Ms. Morse—the reassurance does little to ease her fears.

Ward’s presence, on the other hand, is far more comforting than it should be. She’ll have to remember to worry about that.

 


End file.
